


The Black Phone

by AlexOblivion



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Brother against Brother, Double Agents, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Rating Hike, Eventual Smut, Eventual violence, F/M, From a Tumblr Prompt!, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo chasing Ben, Many nerd references, Much plot, Needs him some saving, Professor Ben Solo, Rey is the protector, Slow Burn, Soft Ben Solo, Spies & Secret Agents, Spy Rey (Star Wars), Suspense, Witness Protection, chase - Freeform, probably some cabin fluff eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 12:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20436371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexOblivion/pseuds/AlexOblivion
Summary: When the black phone rings, he knows what he has to do. Answer it, state his name, his location, and his plan, then run.On a Tuesday afternoon Ben gets the call. His brother has found him and he has to go right now. All he's told is that he'll have help and he'll know them because they'll know the code phrase. He doesn't expect his help to come in the form of a firecracker slip of a girl with more attitude than muscle, but he'll take what he can get. Ben and his new protector run, but Ben knows he can't run forever. Eventually, he and Kylo will have to finish what they started so long ago.This is a slow-burn secret-agent-style thriller with eventual romance, fluff, and a ratings hike at some point. Enjoy!





	The Black Phone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This was inspired from a prompt on Tumblr, from Dark Water Prompts. The prompt was "when the black phone rings, you say your name, your location, and you run." It got me to thinking, and this little thing was born of it. This'll be multi chapter with regular updates, so let me know what you think! 
> 
> \- AO

The black phone rang at two thirty in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Ben shouldn’t have been at home, but he had foisted his afternoon class off on his TA so he could grade papers. When it rang, he was sitting in the living room on his couch, chewing the end of a pen and reading through some incredibly uninspired drivel about Freud’s psycho sexual theories. The ring stopped him mid-word and his body froze. A second later he broke out in a cold sweat. It was a different ring than his iPhone, he had made sure of that. It sounded old, all round notes and trilling pattern. 

It took him to the third ring to get off his couch, papers and pen scattering to the floor, forgotten. He made it to the counter by the fourth ring and picked the phone up off its cradle - who even had a landline anymore? - by the fifth. 

It took more effort than he would have expected not to say hello. 

“Name, location, plan.” The voice on the other end had been fed through a synthesizer so he couldn’t identify it. Not that he would have tried. 

“Benjamin Organa-Solo, Salem, Oregon, cross the border,” he said. 

“Confirmed. Help will be coming. They will ask you these words exactly ‘What do you hear, Starbuck?’ You will reply exactly ‘Nothing but the rain.’ Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” he breathed, his heart racing in his throat and his eyes stinging. 

“Go. And Godspeed.” They hung up. Ben set the phone back down in its cradle and stood in his kitchen, his mind numb and unable to process what was happening. He stood through three deep breaths, eyes closed, fists clenched, and then he went into action. 

*

The tall, reedy ginger kicked at an overturned plant, rolling it across the floor and watching the dirt from its pot spread as it went. 

“He left in a hurry,” he remarked, voice cold and accented. 

One of his companions, the blonde woman, was opening and shutting each of his kitchen cabinets in turn. She snorted at his words. 

“Obviously.” She nodded at the black phone on the wall as if that explained it. 

The third member of their team, a tall black haired man with a wicked curving scar down one cheek went to the black phone and ran his finger down the casing. 

“The Resistance,” he said. He cursed and tore the phone off the wall. He threw the phone across the kitchen, straight at the blonde woman. She leaned out of the way, her face completely impassive. The phone burst into shards of plastic and wiring and the dull dial tone filled the kitchen. 

The redhead scoffed. “That’s hardly helpful,” he said, “we already knew he was connected to the Resistance. What we don’t know is where he’ll go now. We need to get a trace out on him.” 

The blonde was already on her phone. She waited a moment then started speaking with no preamble. 

“I need a trace put out on a vehicle. Black Kia Sorrento, license plate A03 B9X, leaving my location at some point today. Occupant Benjamin Organa-Solo. If you get him on CCTV, track him. Tab his credit cards and ID, internet access, everything.” She hung up. “Someone will get a look at him, somewhere,” she said. 

“We’d better hope so,” the scarred man growled, “you know what happens if we don’t.” 

*

The first thing Ben did once he left his house was go to the bank. He pulled all his money out of all of his accounts in cash. He would exchange it for Canadian later when he could go somewhere harder to trace than his own bank. He knew when they accessed his accounts they would see that he was rabbitting, but he figured they already knew that so why not? Besides, he had been trained for this. Make it as hard as possible to track yourself, which meant no credit card transactions, no internet access, no predictable routines. 

The next thing he did was ditch his car, which sucked because he liked the Kia. He went into a second hand dealership that boasted “we take cash offers today!” and sold them the Kia for some cash and a Volkswagen Golf that had seen better days. 

“We can do insurance right here,” the woman who had sold him the car told him after they had finished the transfer. He slid his ID across the counter. 

Years ago, when it had become apparent that he might need a back door, he had had new IDs forged. This was the first time they would be tested. The woman scanned his driver’s license and Ben tried not to look as nervous as he felt. 

“Looks like we’re all good, Mr. Ford,” she said, handing him back his ID and picking some papers off the printer under her counter, “just sign here and here and we’ll be good to go.” 

He did, remembering at the last second that he wasn’t Ben Solo now he was Matt Ford. He scrawled something that could look like Ford if you squinted and took the keys from the saleswoman. He muttered his thanks and left the shop with a glance back at his old Kia. His backpack and carrying case were already in the Golf. 

What was next? His blood pressure was so high he could feel his pulse in his ears and he was worried that he was so stressed he was forgetting things, which just made him worry more. What was next? He looked down at the passenger seat - there, the phone. Ben took a sharp right at the next intersection onto a little country lane. Salem was farm country, all wineries and orchards. Once he was off the main drag he took his phone out of the car and set it on the pavement. It only took two stomps to crush it. Ben rummaged through the debris and found the SIM card, then carefully snapped it in half. He’d buy a burner a few towns over if he needed to. 

With the phone taken care of Ben figured he was as ready as he could be to get going. His goal was to get over the border to Canada - it wouldn’t make it impossible for them to track him down, but it would certainly make it more difficult. He knew if he went straight up the I5 they’d find him through the traffic cameras and extrapolating how fast he could drive, so it was going to be back roads and little highways the whole way there. He sighed. He had always hated driving. Ben kicked the debris of his phone off into the ditch and got back into the Golf. There was nothing for it now but to go. 

*

“We’ve got something,” the blonde called. The scarred man looked up from his burger. It was nearing seven o’clock, five hours after they had started the hunt for Ben Solo, and they were just now getting a lead. He had been starting to think he’d have to just hunt him down on foot. 

“What is it?” He asked. The ginger turned the laptop around so he could see the screen. He stood up from Ben’s dining table and went over to the counter where the other two were sitting. It was a CCTV feed at a used car dealership. A black Kia Sorrento pulled up and a man with chin length wavy black hair got out. The ginger fast forwarded the tape until the man came back out and retrieved a backpack which he moved over to a Volkswagon Golf. 

“We got a ping when they transferred ownership,” the blonde explained. The scarred man didn’t care; he knew how these things worked. He leaned in closer to the screen as if that would get him closer to his target. 

“Switching cars, textbook,” he murmured, “if he follows the pattern he’ll get rid of his phone next. Have we got access to his bank accounts yet? Guaranteed he’s emptied those.” 

“No, we’re not in yet. But if he knows what he’s doing he already pulled all his money,” the blonde said.

He nodded. “He knows what he’s doing. He had the same training we did, remember? Track that car. If we lose that car we lose him, and I do not want to lose him.” 

The ginger chucked a lazy salute at him and he wandered over to the living room window, lost in thought. Ben clearly knew they were coming and he was playing his cards exactly according to the book. Get rid of anything traceable and run until you’re sure you can’t be followed. Then run a little further just in case. He would do the same thing if he were ever in the position to need to. 

“Your move, Solo,” he murmured. 

*

The road was getting blurry in front of him when Ben decided it was time to pull over. He had been driving for a good eight hours and that plus the adrenaline of the afternoon had left him exhausted. There should be a town coming up shortly - he had stopped in Pacific City and picked up a phone with GPS - and he would find a place to eat and sleep there. 

Forks Washington was quintessential small town Pacific Northwest: one main drag with most of the shops and hotels on it, and a few little mom-and-pop restaurants. Most of them were closed at this time of night. There was a burger joint with the lights still on, so Ben pulled in there. He felt like a zombie when he stumbled out of his car and up the couple steps to the restaurant. His back ached and his eyes felt like they were on fire. 

The restaurant smelled good and as soon as he walked in his stomach growled. Apparently he was more hungry than he thought. A waitress busy with a couple waved at him, to which he nodded and took as an invitation to seat himself. He found a booth in a far corner where he could watch the whole restaurant without looking as nervous and anticipatory as he felt. The menu looked like pretty standard pub fare, and to be honest as long as he got something to eat Ben didn’t really care what it was. 

He looked up in time to see the waitress approaching his table. This was a different girl than the one who had waved at him coming in; she looked like she could be one of his university students. She was beautiful, he realized as she got closer, with a wide smile and shoulder length brown curls. She bounced up beside his table and pulled her notepad out. 

“Hi there, welcome to Sully’s,” she said, her voice as bright and cheerful as the rest of her demeanour, “What do you hear, Starbuck?”


End file.
